


Runner Up

by witch_brew



Series: An Eventuality [3]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Death, Gen, Ghost Sex, Gore, Kidnapping, M/M, Mercy Killing, Murder, Other, Reader is Dead, Revenge, Torture, Violence, ghost sex?, i dont know, im garbage., kind of, noncon, ren is mentioned briefly, you are a ghost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch_brew/pseuds/witch_brew
Summary: You can't help it. You're a sore loser.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the final piece of this little series. I've got some other stuff in the works though so no worries.

You lost. You know that. 

You know you shouldn't be here anymore. You should have gone away after.

But you didn't.

You couldn't.

You stayed.

He hates you, you're pretty sure. You keep him up at night. He hates that you won't leave him. 

Every time he brings home a new victim, you stand in the corner and watch him, whisper vicious words in his ear. He ignores you, but you can tell he sees you. You know he hears you. His shoulders tense, he grits his teeth, the hair on his arms stands on end every time you brush against him. 

You lost.

But you won't lose again.

(You still remember dying. 

He'd finally tired of you. He'd had his fun. He'd finally broken you completely, physically and mentally. 

He'd forced you to kill that girl. Made you eat parts of her while you sobbed.

He fucked you with that fucking gun until he blew your guts and his load all over the place. 

And then he took his boot and stomped on your skull again and again and again and again and...

And you died, in that basement.

You lost, but you stayed anyway.)

Today there is no new victim. He is sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a beer. He rarely drinks heavily, but you think maybe you have something to do with the recent increase.

It's not guilt. He doesn't feel guilt. 

He's just angry at you. You're still here and that's not how it works. You're supposed to leave when you die. 

He doesn't understand why you're different. Neither do you.

(Maybe you're just stubborn. Or maybe it's because nothing changed. Remember?)

You walk up behind him, silent. You are always silent unless you choose to speak. You figured that out over time. 

You also learned that you can touch him, but he cannot touch you. You are thankful for that. 

“Strade.” You whisper, and he jumps, spilling beer on the table, before sinking down a hair.

He hates reacting to you. You shouldn't exist, you both know that. 

You hum, sitting in the chair beside him. Watching. He won't speak to you, he never does, but you can torment him just fine without that. Just watching him squirm brings an unpleasant sort of vindictive pleasure to you. 

Finally, he slams the beer down, and you're startled. This is new. 

“Why are you still here?” He spits. 

You stare at him, wide eyed. This is the first time he's acknowledged you since you first appeared to him postmortem. 

“You died. I killed you. You shouldn't be here anymore. You. Lost.”

You give him a smile.

“That's too bad isn't it?”

You don't know the answer. Or maybe you don't want to admit the truth.

(You'd follow him anywhere, remember?)

He lunges for you, and even though you know he can't touch you, you jump, startled, old instinct still ingrained in your mind. 

He, of course, moves through you as though you're not even there, smashing into the floor hard enough to make you wince. He lies there for a long moment before slowly pushing himself up, off of the ground, and turning to glare at you. A bit of blood is trickling from his lip. He probably bit it when he fell.

“Why don't you just fucking leave, Hasi?” He growls. 

You don't say anything. You just give him that same, cold smile. 

-

Strade returns to ignoring you after that, though it appears to be more difficult for him now. You think maybe acknowledging you made you clearer to him. Made your presence a little bit stronger. 

Tonight it's a guy. Blonde. 

He's sobbing, kind of like the girl Strade had made you kill. They usually sob. You get it. 

No one wants to die. You didn't. 

Strade is trying to ignore you. You know he is. He's carving holes into the blonde man's soft thighs, laughing at his screams and tears. 

You lean against the desk, glancing at the laptop screen. You've figured out why Strade films his victims sometimes.

“They want you to make a hole in his stomach.” You say, a sour note of disdain slipping into your tone. 

Even in death, here you are, his less-than-willing accomplice. 

Strade grits his teeth behind the bandanna, smile fading and eyes growing cold for only a moment at the sound of your voice. The blonde man thinks he's done something wrong, his sobs increasing. 

(He did, but so did you, so you can't blame him. Strade has a very charismatic personality.)

But Strade listens.

He doesn't want to admit it, but he usually listens to you. You've always helped him, no matter how bad it made you feel.

You lived to help him, and not much has changed. But you are still so angry. 

You watch, mildly disgusted, as Strade carves a hole in the man's lower abdomen, spilling more and more of his blood onto the basement floor. 

This one wasn't going to last long. 

You sigh, glancing away from the horror that you've become so disillusioned to so quickly. You still feel for them, in a detached sense, but it's not the way you cared for people when you were alive. 

You wonder if you would have become like this even if you had lived. 

(Probably.)

Your eyes settle on the screen once more. The chat is still moving, requests and donations coming in rapidly. 

“Highest bidder thinks you should fuck the stomach hole.” You mutter, curling your lip. 

What the fuck is wrong with these people. 

Strade actually laughs, breathless, and you look back at him in surprise. He never laughs when you speak.

His cheeks are flushed now, eyes heavy lidded. Ah. 

He's undoing his belt, and the man is struggling against his binds, desperate to escape for fear of what's coming. You turn away when Strade presses his cock to the open wound, listening to the wet squelching and the blonde man's slowly dying screams. 

You don't want to look.

When Strade is done, he turns the camera off and leaves the basement, never glancing your way. You turn to see the blonde, still clinging to life, eyes barely open.

You know he's not going to survive the night when his eyes meet yours and don't seem to look right through. 

He lets out a noise somewhere between fear and agony, and you approach him, running a hand over his fine hair, down his cheek, until it rests over his trachea. 

You press. 

There's not much struggle. You doubt he understands what's happening. He might even think you're an angel. You laugh at the thought. 

When he's dead, you leave the basement, staring at your hands.

You think, maybe, something is wrong with you. 

You think, maybe, you liked it.

-

When Strade doesn't bring home another for the next two weeks, you grow bored. 

He still ignores you, even when you breathe icy air down the nape of his neck. He's getting better at it. 

You are getting angrier. 

You don't like being ignored.

You really are a sore loser, aren't you?

-

You were six. A foot race on the school playground. You and several other children. 

Strade was watching from the side lines, cheering you on. After school he'd probably want to go play in your yard, rough housing with you until the scary old man across the street would come and shout at the both of you.

But then a girl tripped you. 

You fell hard, scraping your knees and palms bloody on the ground, and you heard a few teachers shouting in concern, but you were a competitive child, and you ignored the pain, blinking away your tears as you scrambled up and kept running.

You came in second, the girl who had tripped you beating you by a few seconds. 

You were such a gentle, timid child. No one knew you'd become so angry over this. A teacher helps bandage your hands and knees while you sniffled, glaring at the girl who'd beat you as she scrambled up to the top of the jungle gym. 

Once you were given the okay to continue playing, you set off, carefully making your way closer and closer to the girl. Strade, you noticed, was close by, staring curiously at you.

You weren't a mean child. 

Even you didn't know why you did it.

You climbed to the top of the jungle gym, right behind the girl, and shouted into her ear. She jumped, losing her balance, and you pushed her in a way that almost looked like you were trying to grab her. 

She fell.

She sprained her ankle, nothing too serious, but Strade looked at you a little different after that. You think, maybe, that's when he decided to start testing you.

You were always such a sore loser.

-

You glare at the back of his head as he watches television. The fox, Ren, had finally left to sleep in his little makeshift nest. You're twitchy, agitated. Desperate for some sort of attention from him, be it positive or negative. 

(Sometimes when you were younger and he was mad at you, he'd ignore you for a while. You'd always give in, sobbing and apologizing until he finally gave in and 'forgave' you.)

Now, you're fuming, not crying.

Your fists clench, and finally, you give into your fury.

You hit him. Your closed fist smashes into the side of his skull as hard as possible. 

He falls, gripping his skull where your fist had just made impact, and you stand over him, tense and still. so. Angry. 

You push him back, straddling his waist, and hit him again. And again. And again. 

His nose is bloodied now, lip busted, one of his teeth is chipped. You keep hitting, his struggliing completely useless against you. He can't touch you. 

Finally you stop, panting unnecessarily as you glare down at him. He's struggling to breathe, turning his head slightly to the side in order to spit out his own blood. He looks furious, and you feel an odd sense of satisfaction from that. 

“You little cunt.” He hisses through clenched teeth, and you smile.

“Sorry. I really am a sore loser.” You chirp, mimicking the too-friendly tone he so-often used to lure in victims. 

He shifts, and due to your position on top of him, you can feel his erection.

You get an idea.

Slowly, curiously, you rock your hips against his. He gasps, fists clenching on the ground as his hips lift up into yours. 

You smile. 

You undo his pants easily, gripping him in your hand, and position yourself over him. Sensations are stranger now that your existence is less physical, but you can still feel. You prove this when you sink down on his cock and moan loudly. 

You begin to move on top of him, watching his face slowly cloud with lust. Your nails dig into his chest until you can see beads of blood welling up. You laugh when he makes a pained noise between his sounds of pleasure. 

He tilts his head back, and your eyes are drawn to his throat. 

You remember the blonde man, and your lips twitch as your hands wrap around his tan neck, tightening until he starts to struggle. He's gasping for air, but none is coming. His feet are kicking. 

You're so close.

You reach your climax as his struggles begin to grow weaker, and you finally release his throat. He gasps for air as his orgasm hits, and you smirk. 

You stand, leaving him limp on the ground to catch his breath. You sigh, extending a hand to help him up.

He accepts. 

“You're right, Hasi.” He says, voice slightly muddled from the bloody nose you gave him. “You are a sore loser.”

But he doesn't ignore you again.


End file.
